


Such Displays

by RurouniHime



Series: Day series [8]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anniversary, Dancing, Established Relationship, Guns, Jealousy, Knives, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Public Display of Affection, Restaurants, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Their hanger-on has switched places. He sits with dark eyes locked on Eames, legs spread wide and obvious as he leans against the bar.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Displays

**Author's Note:**

> The Inception universe only belongs to me in my dreams, and it makes me no money either way, a fact that never fails to kick me awake.
> 
> Part 7 of The Day Series. Because Arthur clearly needs another reason to worry about his heart rate. *faceplant*
> 
> Thank you so much to Snottygrrl for betaing!

_Jealousy is all the fun you think they had. ~Erica Jong_

 

“Do you know what I’m going to do?” Arthur says. 

He has his pint glass in the grip of one hand, and his pointer finger taps rapidly against its foggy side. Eames raises an eyebrow. “Darling—”

“I am going to go over there.” Arthur is speaking slowly, enunciating every single word. “I am going to take that shot glass away from him. And then I am going to break it against the bar and _remove_ his ability to look at anything.”

This time Eames sits up, clears his throat. “Perhaps a bit extreme.”

The look Arthur gives him makes him wonder why he spoke at all. Arthur’s tone is fluid and soothing, not one word elevated above the rest. It’s so fucking sexy Eames wants to tug his tie loose, give himself some air.

He doesn’t. Because of course Arthur has managed to convey his ire without a strand of hair twitching out of place. Eames will be damned if he messes up his own immaculate appearance— it had better be immaculate, he’s incredibly proud of it— tonight. He wants Arthur’s eyes to widen all night _just_ like they did the moment Eames stepped out of their bedroom. He wants to remember until his dying day the way Arthur’s fingers had tightened on the arm of their couch, thank you.

“Let’s take your mind off it.” Eames flourishes the menu: it’s hardback, bound with gold thread. Good god. The pages are probably vellum. “Hungry yet?”

He hears Arthur’s jaw grate from across the table and wishes he were sitting beside him instead. 

At least that’s easily fixed. Eames gets up, sidles around the end of the booth, and squeezes in next to Arthur, drawing his husband’s eye back from the interloper at the bar. Thankfully their new friend is staying there; at this angle, they can put him out of sight, and the rest should follow.

“Well. Subtlety.” Arthur frowns at him, but does move over. Not much, Eames notices. Just enough to get him into the booth again and pretty much plastered against Arthur’s left side. It’s so nice when they think alike.

“Don’t insult,” Eames scoffs. “I would never.”

“Oh, I am aware you’d never.” Arthur takes the menu away from him and sets it down atop his own. “Not hungry yet.”

“Not for food, anyway.” Eames noses the curve of Arthur’s throat just to smell him. Really, he could do it for hours if Arthur would let him. Arthur never sits still for long enough, though; if Eames didn’t know better, he’d guess the unassailable Arthur was flustered by such displays.

Eames grins against the flutter of Arthur’s pulse.

“My god, you look good tonight.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Thank you. You look…” And he _clears his throat_. Eames barely keeps the laugh in. Pure glee, that. It’s a wonder he ends up containing it.

He kisses Arthur just at the spot where his jaw meets his ear and moves back a little. “Why, Arthur.”

“Shh.” Arthur has enough skill to make even that simple utterance sound resigned.

“Never told me this was your favorite restaurant,” Eames murmurs. He’s back to nosing Arthur’s hair, the soft skin at the arch of his neck; he’s going to have to stop this eventually, pay more attention. Figure out how he keeps getting here without any memory of the actions leading up to these overt spectacles.

Arthur shrugs and relaxes into the booth. “I really love their carbonara.”

It will be the most expensive carbonara Eames has ever paid for, the most expensive he’s ever _seen_ listed on a menu. The whole place is swimming in gilded finery, managing to be a bar, a restaurant, a night club and a dance hall in the same sublime breath. The lights are sultry; the wait staff, the bartenders, the _people_ are dressed to the nines, except for—

Eames just barely keeps the curse silent, but it’s too late: Arthur has already fixated.

Their hanger-on has switched places. Gotten to his feet, walked two yards up the bar, and sat down again right in their line of sight. He looks somehow out of place in his dressy clothing, more kitsch than class. Ill-fitting, for all that designer labeling. He sits with dark eyes locked on Eames, legs spread wide and obvious as he leans against the bar.

Well. Clearly this will never do.

Eames has been the recipient of many an ogling eye. Some he’s pretty sure he exaggerated to boost his ego, but others have been beyond blatant. For a time, he rather liked those people; he respected their ability to get down and go after what— who— they wanted.

But this is his fucking anniversary. _Their_ fucking anniversary, note the inclusion of two individuals. First normal one in, oh, ever. He does not need or want Arthur to experience it in a state of barely contained aggravation.

(‘Aggravation’, because if Arthur gets downright infuriated, Eames won’t have a prayer of curtailing any of it.)

It’s a good thing he lives the brazen life.

Getting Arthur out of his seat is not an issue: an Arthur distracted is an Arthur easy to maneuver. Any excuse to be handsy is also abused. Eames doesn’t know how Arthur was around other paramours, but damn it if Arthur doesn’t love being manhandled by Eames: he turns into Eames’ grip instinctively, like he was fashioned to fit there, angles his body like he _craves_ that fit, and ingeniously manhandles Eames back like— like— Well, bollocks, Eames may not be as in control of this situation as he thought. Which is just fine by him.

He does think outright fornication across the top of their table is prohibited, though, so keeping his head on straight is still a requirement.

“Know how to tango, darling?”

To his credit, Arthur drags his attention from Eames’ admirer again— he’s bloody well turned around like a possessed Linda Blair, glaring back the way they came— and fixes Eames with a disenchanted look. “ _You_ don’t even know how to tango.”

Too bad all of Arthur’s expressions only serve to turn Eames on tonight.

“Can’t be that hard,” he dismisses, pivoting Arthur into the curl of his arm and pressing him firmly forward at the hips with a hand to the small of his back. Bit lower than that, actually. Eames has never had any trouble groping his husband, not even when Arthur is angry. Arthur’s actually kind of grabby himself when he’s incensed, though mostly it just serves to prove how much control he has over Eames. He’s also quite adept at using his hands to thwart Eames’ fury, when it occurs.

Eames isn’t too slick about groping his husband in public though, and he wishes he _were_. He also doesn’t like what being good at it would mean in terms of others witnessing things they have no right to see. But that’s pretty much the idea right now, isn’t it? And Eames exploits it. He slides his palm down over Arthur’s backside, locks them neatly together at the hips, and shifts into a motion that would get them booted from most self-respecting restaurants with these sorts of carbonara prices.

The only sign that Arthur is reacting in a less-than-controlled manner is the flare of his nostrils. He not only steps into it, he tucks the rest of Eames’ body to his, winds a hand over Eames’ nape, and demands a kiss from him with enough expertise to leave Eames blinking once it’s over.

Arthur matches kiss to step, moving in and out of both with lazy flair.

Damn. It.

“Fuck the tango,” Eames breathes. The edges of Arthur’s lips flicker. He leans in until Eames can feel his breath over one ear.

“Five years ago this day,” Arthur murmurs. Touches his nose to Eames’ temple. “Best thing I ever did.”

Eames pulls back, holding Arthur by the shoulders, and studies him carefully. Arthur looks right back. 

“You fantastic sap,” Eames pronounces at last.

But Arthur’s real smile is back now, not that thin display of force he’s been sporting for the last half hour. He sidles in close again, lifts Eames’ left hand with his right, and sways him into a racy bachata, smirking all the while. Eames is happy to be led.

When they finally exit the dance floor, the music has picked up, scudding away from the gentle rhythms they began with, and Arthur is not the only one with a rosy tint to his cheeks. Nor is he the only one grinning. Or laughing, openly. An older woman in a demure sequined sheath nods almost proudly at them as they head back to their booth, and the man who had caused so much upheaval in the first place has disappeared.

Eames thinks, _That’s done it, then._

**

It hasn’t. 

Within moments of sitting down, the man makes his reappearance, sideswiping their table and brushing coat lapels with Eames as he passes, cocktail in hand. He sets a second cocktail down deliberately in front of Eames, leaving him staring. Good thing Arthur’s at the bar getting a drink Eames will actually like, but when he gets back, Eames is still too flummoxed to say anything right away. Not surprised, per se. More at a complete loss as to what else to do about this. 

Turns out Arthur doesn’t even need words. He takes one look at the drink and all of Eames’ hard work on the dance floor is demolished with a quick and resounding thud that Eames can almost hear, it’s so profound. 

“Thank you, Arthur,” he says quietly, pulling the proffered pint closer.

Arthur sits without a word, and knocks back his drink— a shot of something rich and amber— in one go. Eames reaches for his hand and is a little relieved when Arthur lets him take it. Even lets him lace their fingers. Eames sets about stroking the side of Arthur’s wrist with his thumb. He’s not sure if it’s working, and that irritates him, that he has to do this at all, that it’s not having its usual effect, that Arthur’s this… unsettled.

He ends up drawing Arthur bodily toward him without thinking it through, just going with the idea as soon as it pops in. Again, Arthur lets him, perhaps a little too quickly. But he’s stiff, his muscles unrelenting even as he rests against Eames’ chest, practically in his lap. They do order, and the food is delicious. Eames eats steadily while Arthur picks at his fare with a strange diligence that would fool anyone else into believing him content with the meal. And maybe he is; Eames knows better than anyone that Arthur is ace at compartmentalizing. 

The thing is, Eames’ stalker is still staring. And Eames isn’t sure what else to do to get the message at hand across.

The man begins to stray from the bar in little loops of the room, passing nearer to their booth each time. Never near enough to make Eames think complaining to the hostess would actually get results, but never far enough to make either of them believe his intentions are anything other than lascivious.

He winks. He leers. He damn well makes lewd gestures. Seriously, this bloke belongs in a seedy pick-up dive.

He’s what Eames would have called a hooligan when he was younger: burly in an appealing way, sure of himself. Thuggish in a pinch. Discounts slighter people by default. He wouldn’t consider Arthur a threat, and that would be the most grievous mistake he’d ever make.

Eames knows: he used to run with that crowd. Still a little attracted to that crowd, truth be told, or he would be if the dangers of his current lifestyle did not leave him absolutely satisfied in that regard.

And Arthur takes care of all the rest. He’d like to think his husband does it effortlessly, but he knows that’s not the truth; the fact that Arthur puts such a high level of concentration into them continually knocks spider-web cracks into Eames’ heart.

Eames tries glaring. He tries ignoring. He tries staring in the best deadpan he’s got. He absolutely avoids visiting the loo, as that would be seen as an outright invitation. He tries snogging Arthur and playing with their rings instead, and feeding Arthur from his fork like some ridiculous teeny bopper on a date.

All the while, Arthur’s muscles tighten further. His face has completely closed down, the marble mask Eames remembers all too well from when they first came upon each other on a job years ago. 

That expression has no place here, none.

He’s just lifting Arthur’s hand to kiss the heel of it when the man stops right at the end of their table.

“Fancy a drink, love?”

Good god, he’s English. Eames smiles tightly. “No. I do not.”

“Because I’d like to buy you something. Loosen your night up.”

And that’s _enough_. Eames takes a quick survey of the establishment, then locks his jaw and reaches into his jacket pocket. He wraps his hand around his SIG and pulls the coat open, revealing the outline of the gun, and his hand on it, through the fabric. He aims directly at the center of the man’s chest. “You fuck right off before I lose what’s left of my good mood.”

The man’s mouth drops, and then hangs, open. He looks back and forth between the gun and Eames’ face. “Are you… You’re serious?”

Arthur jerks into movement and Eames aborts it under the table with a hand clenched in the fabric of his husband’s trousers. “This and every other damn time.”

The man reaches, long fingers outstretched, and Arthur growls low in his throat. “Do _not_ touch him.”

Eames’ admirer freezes. Eames… well, Eames gets a little aroused. It must show on his face, because the man recovers himself and reapplies that shit-eating grin he’s been aiming Eames’ way all night.

Except this time he turns it on Arthur, and there’s a derisive tilt to it. “And what happens if I do?”

It takes a lot more work to hold Arthur in his seat this time, but he manages. “Go… the fuck… away,” Eames intones, slowly so that pea-brains can understand.

“Why, you want to come with me?” The man leers, resting both hands on the table like he’s someone’s gift to something somewhere.

“You stupid shit,” Eames exhales. Leans forward, all confidential-like. “I’m saving your life. Who exactly do you think is the more creative one here?” He gestures with the concealed gun between himself and Arthur. The man follows the motion with wide eyes, and then they stop and fix. And become a whole lot wider.

Eames glances over.

He has no idea where Arthur picked up that steak knife, but it’s a beauty, long and serrated with an ornate handle. Arthur is currently spinning it with one hand as if it’s an extension of his body, twirling it round his thumb and two fingers like a small baton, settling it briefly in his palm, flipping it once and back casually before changing direction. 

This skill is a recent acquisition, one Arthur’s been working on at the cost of the splendid skin on his hands and sometimes a toe not jerked clear quickly enough when the knife tumbles floorward. He’s quite good with blades in the dreamshare— hell, Eames performs the best tango in the universe in the dreamshare. Out here, though, it’s not yet a forte. 

But their provocateur has no idea. And the increasing speed of Arthur’s fingers on that knife certainly isn’t helping the man’s comfort level. All the skin Eames can see has gone the shade of particularly fine ash. The man swallows, and one fist slips off the edge of the table before he’s ready, making him stumble to right himself. Eames settles back against Arthur’s side, interlaces his fingers with those of the hand that curls low around his waist, and Arthur’s _still spinning that damned knife like Eames isn’t even there moving his limbs around._

Fucking _gorgeous_.

“Now piss off, would you? Before my husband fillets you or something equally inventive.”

Arthur palms the knife, a deft, reversed-blade grip. The sudden cessation of movement is weighty.

The man leaves without even trying to be graceful, just backs off until he has to turn around or fall over a chair. Eames thumbs the safety off, a gentle click, and before he knows it, he can’t even see their new friend anymore.

“Bloody hell,” he sighs, clicking the safety back on and dropping forward until his forehead rests on the tabletop. It’s nice and cool. He sloughs as much of it as will be sloughed and sits up again, ready with a smile.

Arthur slams the knife down on the tabletop with a bang. The line of his jaw is one taut angle, making his profile sharper than ever. Eames reaches instinctively, but this time Arthur snaps his hand out of range, breathing rapidly through his nose. His fingers tug once, hard, on the hem of his vest.

“Don’t,” Eames murmurs, and Arthur makes a sound, but Eames just whispers again, getting closer this time, not really words at all. He feels the tension leaving Arthur’s body in tiny, unwilling hitches.

For the first time, anger rushes in, sharply pronged. Because Eames does not want Arthur to feel this way ever, but especially not tonight. For _fuck’s_ sake. He doesn’t want anyone except him evoking this level of emotion in Arthur, he’s the only one with the right to do anything like that.

It takes him far too long to rein himself in.

“Don’t,” he says again. His own voice sounds strange. How in the world can he convince Arthur not to run out there and find the guy when all Eames wants to do is shoot the man’s bollocks off?

“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” Arthur seethes, so quickly and quietly that the words run together. He presses the heels of his hands over his eyes and braces both elbows on the table. “One anniversary. That’s all I want, just a single normal anniversary where I don’t feel like I have to stab someone in the eye to protect your virtue!”

The laugh sputters out without Eames’ permission. He tries valiantly to hold it in, especially as Arthur turns slowly to stare at him. But he can’t. The image of himself with any particular virtue left to protect is too _funny_ , too disturbing to contain. The best part is that Arthur is right, damn it. He’s right, and it’s still hilarious.

Arthur’s lips press into a line. And shiver. Downright tremble. And then break wide as he laughs, too, eyes squinted, mouth open and grinning. Eames’ guffaw this time is pure gratitude, and he leans in as Arthur leans, shoulders sagging against each other, temples touching. Arthur kisses his cheek, still chuckling, and Eames returns it, catches his husband’s mouth and slows it down, angles it good and proper.

“Next year,” he murmurs, “next year we’ll do it right. Go somewhere small. Dinner and a movie, something.”

“Thank god,” Arthur says, and kisses him again. “I’m all for simplicity.”

**

_Whoever envies another confesses his superiority. ~Samuel Johnson_

 

~fin~


End file.
